


Close Encounters

by Ealasaid



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:49:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Diamonds Droog's recon mission turns interesting. (PWP, mostly.) Originally written during 12 Prompts 12 Hours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Encounters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rexila](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rexila/gifts).



> Inspired by http://cutthroatcharlatan.tumblr.com/post/15618360615/anonymous-asked-could-you-draw-handmaiden

You’re making your way through Felt Mansion. There shouldn’t be anyone home; Boxcars and Deuce spent the afternoon setting explosives to virtually a whole city block’s worth of warehouses belonging to the Felt, and are currently engaged in destroying them all periodically. The entirety of the Felt has been mobilized according to your and Slick’s radio surveillance and are off in the other part of the city; meanwhile, you and your boss are attempting to map out the mansion for a more concerted attack.  
  
The place is like a maze, filled with dead ends and trick walls, and it wasn’t long before the two of you got separated. You’ve maintained radio contact faithfully however, so it’s not like either of you are totally lost.  
  
The radio crackles. Slick’s snarling about absurdly expensive and ugly vases. You have no problem with them, you tell him, but please don’t smash them, the whole point is that the Felt don’t find out we were here—a shattering crash echoes over the tiny speaker, putting an end to that line of conversation.  
  
Halfway through the first hour of exploring the ugly green hallways solo you’re aware that someone is watching you. Unobtrusive looks around don’t tell you anything; no one is seen whipping around corners. There is no movement in the mansion, except for you sneaking through the hallways.  
  
But the feeling persists, until an hour and fifteen minutes later when you appear to be wandering through the personal quarters of the first seven members of the Felt when you stop dead in the middle of the hallway and quietly request whoever is watching you please cease or take a shot at you all ready. No one answers, and for a moment you feel a little stupid for talking to nothing, but then you turn around and spot her.  
  
She’s as tall as Snowman and as shapely too; elegantly curved horns curl around her head in delicate spirals. The dress she’s wearing is slinky as hell and gorgeous in an exotic way; it’s tailored to her figure perfectly, and some sort of intricately embroidered silk that almost makes your mouth water. Most notable of all, though, is the beautiful silvery tone of her skin, a shade almost exactly the grey of your grey ladies.  
  
You stand perfectly still for a moment, attempting to calculate your next move. You end up greeting her, narrowing your eyes before tipping your hat ever so slightly as you look her over again.  
  
“Good evening,” you say simply, voice a little less flat than usual.  
  
She walks down the hall with a sensuous sway to her hips that draws your attention. Time ticks slower than you ever thought it was possible as she stalks closer. You couldn’t have moved if you tried.  
  
She halts less than a foot away from you, and runs a finger appreciatively down your white tie. The pressure of her touch burns ridiculously on your oversensitive skin—which should not be that sensitive—and once at the bottom, she slides a hand under it and runs it back up to decisively wrap a hand around it. You would be protesting about the damage—maybe—but she’s dragged you forward the last few inches and is busy sucking pleasurably on your tongue, so you’re unable to do much by the way of verbal disapproval.  
  
The radio in your pocket crackles again halfway through, but it’s not until she pulls away that you fish it out of your suit and answer your cranky boss. “Sorry Slick,” you say as she flips open your suit jacket and works the buttons undone on your shirt. “I’ll have to call you back later.”  
  
Slick starts yelling something but you switch the radio off one-handed instead of listening and shove it back in your pocket while she undoes your belt buckle and fiddles with your fly. You’re already more than interested, and it’s plain to see, so she shoots you an inscrutable look that still manages to convey amusement and shoves you on the floor, where she hooks your pants low, straddles your hips, and leans in for another attention-grabbing smooch.  
  
You slide a hand over her cheek and around the base of her skull and hold her there, and she doesn’t seem to mind too much. She just shifts her position and you can feel her, warm and wet and just as silky as her dress, and you don’t quite check the sound you make. She shakes a little as though she’s suppressing laughter and pulls away; your hand trails down and settles on her hip as she angles things correctly and you end up properly inside of her and not tantalized by the promise of it.  
  
The breath you take is audible as it hisses through your teeth. You weren’t really prepared for the suddenness of it all, and every roll of her hips emphasizes that fact. She half smiles and trails a sharp nail across the exposed skin of your abdomen as the fingers of your free hand dig and scrape into the carpet.  
  
You grit your teeth and tighten your grasp on her hip; instinctively you bend a leg up off the floor so that she gets some support should she choose to lean back. She doesn’t, but you’re glad of the extra traction that enables you to half-thrust back as she comes down, and you’re rewarded with a sucked breath and half-closed eyes from her the first time you do it. Her smile grows, and she grinds down once more.  
  
It’s hard to reckon time without Slick squawking at you every few minutes, and you’re not capable of enough focus to check the clocks, but it can’t be very long of the weird time spent pulling her down and pushing against her as she rocks onto you that she’s arching with a cat-like purr of contentment and squeezing around you. The rhythm stutters, and the way she shudders delicately in your hold is unbelievably arousing.  
  
The first thing you see when the stars clear from your vision is her knowing smirk as she leans in for a post-orgasmic kiss, which she uses to lift her hips in such a manner that suction is unavoidable. You nearly lose consciousness at the sensations your brain is forced to process while already over capacity.  
  
She stands languidly and smooths her hands over her dress, following the curve of her waist down over her hips, easing out the wrinkles in the silk. With a last, lingering glance at you sprawled on the floor, she turns and fades from the spot, much as Snowman does.  
  
There is a mess in your lap, but it takes a back seat in your priorities as you dreamily straighten yourself up. You can always clean up later. Fly zipped, belt rebuckled, and you are floating back on your feet, doing up the buttons of your shirt but not bothering to tuck it back in.  
  
You switch the radio back on in time to catch Slick cursing inventively as he reports the return of half of the Felt. You ignore his demanded inquiries as to your location and smash through a window and out onto the grounds with the terse response that you’ll meet at the rendezvous.  
  
You never manage to come up with an excellent excuse for your radio silence.


End file.
